Dark Money

by Larry D. Thompson

  Then they started. Jack had prepared witnesses hundreds of times. His routine rarely varied. He explained the order of trial, discussed what types of jurors would be ideal and then started going through Walt’s deposition and the other depositions, line by line.

  The sun was dropping over the horizon when he finally said, “Okay, remember the old Chinese saying: The mind can absorb only so long as the seat can endure. I suspect your mind and your butt have had enough for today. How about a beer?”

  “Can you make that a double bourbon on the rocks?”

  Jack looked at his friend. “Okay, further advice. I know you’ve been hitting the hard stuff since all this shit happened. Now, we’re about to start trial. A couple of beers a night will be fine, but that’s it. Clear.”

  Walt stared down at his feet, then rose and extended his hand to Jack. “Agreed. After my recent self-imposed therapy, I may be content with iced tea.”

  63

  Jack expected a media trial. For that reason he, J.D., Walt and Colby loaded the Hummer with their files and supplies the night before. They left the house at seven o’clock on Monday morning. Colby was enlisted to join the team to offer a female perspective on everything from jury selection to how the witnesses were being perceived by the jurors. Probably the most important device was J.D.’s laptop computer. Every surveillance video was loaded on it. Jack wanted to use the videos of the event to demonstrate the impossible situation presented to those trying to protect the attendees as well as those who were on the stage.

  Jack was wearing his charcoal trial suit and carrying what he called his Bat Masterson cane, the straight black one with a gold knob on top. It reminded him of the legendary lawman and gambler. Jack knew that to be a successful trial lawyer, it helped to have the personality of a riverboat gambler. That was Jackson Bryant in spades. His only weakness was that he rarely wanted to fold his cards and walk away from a trial. When he started, he was almost always all in.

  Once at the courthouse, they parked on the side near an entrance close to an elevator where Walt and J.D. unloaded the Hummer and used a dolly to make the several trips necessary to move their trial materials to the second floor. Jack and Colby parked the Hummer on the lot in front of the courthouse and climbed the steps to the main entrance. Inside, the deputy sheriff manning the metal detector knew Jack and waved them around it. On the second floor they went to a conference room adjoining Judge Jamison’s courtroom which would be the home away from home for the defendants and their lawyers for the duration of the trial. Once satisfied all of their trial materials were in the room, Jack walked into the courtroom, briefcase in one hand and cane in the other. As planned, they were the first to arrive and took the table inside the bar closest to the jury.

  While Jack was unloading his briefcase, Ernest Rios, the deputy sheriff and bailiff, came from a door near the judge’s bench. “Jack, nice to have you in our courtroom,” Rios said.

  Jack walked over to shake his hand. “Always my pleasure, Ernie. You know we have a lot of parties in this one. What do you suggest?”

  Ernie nodded toward the jury box. “For jury selection, I’m going to put the parties in the jury box. If we need more than fourteen seats, I can find a couple more chairs. We have a panel of fifty-six. That’s all this courtroom will hold. Any reporters will just have to line the walls during jury selection. As you know, Judge Jamison doesn’t permit cameras in the courtroom. So that eliminates one problem. Once you pick the jury, we’ll reserve the first two rows for the parties. Others, including the media, can sit in the next six.”

  Jack nodded his head as he surveyed the courtroom. ”Works for me.” He studied the old courtroom, recently refurbished with the intent to maintain its majesty. The contractor had succeeded. The bench was solid Texas oak, burnished to an auburn sheen. It placed Judge Jamison at least three feet above everyone else. The ceiling was twenty feet tall with recessed lighting. Paneling covered the walls. The chairs for the jury were on swivels, with cushioned leather seats and high backs. Each counsel table was outfitted with a computer hookup. Monitors were on the tables and in the jury box, one between each two jurors. The last monitor was mounted on the witness box. At the push of a button a large screen dropped to the side of the jury to also display exhibits. “They did a nice job. Installed all the modern technology and maintained the old feeling. Just like a courtroom ought to look,” he said to Ernie.

  Ernie excused himself as other lawyers and parties started drifting in. Cecil Christiansen burst through the door at about eight-thirty, trailed by two lawyers, one male and one female, and a legal assistant. “Jack, I knew you were going to get that table. I left Dallas early, intending to beat you to it. Damned if I didn’t get tied up in a traffic jam caused by some eighteen wheeler jack knifing.”

  At nine Ernie returned to the courtroom. By then, all of the lawyers and parties were in attendance. Hartley Hampton and three other reporters stood against the wall behind the last bench. Hampton intended to be there every day, hoping that that Jack might find a way to lift the veil of secrecy that shrouded dark money in politics. The court reporter, Annette Slack, had set up her equipment at her table in front of the witness stand. Ernie surveyed the room. “Everyone here and ready to go?”

  When all of the lawyers nodded or stated their agreement, he picked up the phone on his desk and called Judge Jamison who left her chambers and took the bench in less than a minute. Then something unexpected happened.

  “Judge, before we go any further, I’ve been evaluating my case against the various defendants,” Christiansen said. “We’ve deposed them all. I now believe that neither the Fort Worth cops nor the security service did or failed to do anything that could have prevented this tragedy. So, I am nonsuiting them, leaving only the DPS and the governor’s protective detail as defendants.”

  Judge Jamison removed her glasses and quietly wiped them with a tissue before she spoke. “Mr. Bryant, do you have any objection?”

  Jack knew that Christiansen’s decision was a wise one. He preferred to have other defendants who would all profess they did all they could to prevent what happened, but he saw no basis to object. He rose. “None, Your Honor, as long as I get assurance that those defendants will be made available to testify on a day’s notice.”

  Nichols and Burton readily agreed. Nichols walked over to Jack, shook his hand and whispered, “I was looking forward to defending this with you. Let me know when you need one of my cops.”

  The judge and the remaining lawyers spent the next hour and a half, going over pre-trial motions. Once finished, she turned to Ernie.

  “Judge, I’ve got the panel lined up in the hall.”

  “Get them in here. We’ll go until a reasonable time and then take a lunch break. I want this jury seated before the end of the day.”

  The jury selection was unique in one way. Neither the judges nor the lawyers had ever found themselves needing to ask about the politics of prospective jurors. Judge Jamison handled it right from the start. “This case involves a murder, and attempted murders at a Republican fund raiser in Westover Hills. Most of you have probably read or seen something about it, particularly since Governor Lardner was shot. A juror’s personal political opinions are not something that would normally be appropriate for questions by the lawyers. I’ve thought long and hard about how best to deal with it. Here’s what I have decided. I’m going to let the lawyers ask you questions about any political affiliations you may have, whether you usually vote Democratic, Republican or otherwise.”

  The judge saw several members of the panel with looks of disagreement and raised eyebrows. Some turned to stare out the window, obviously upset that anyone could delve into their political leanings. She continued. “However, while I am going to let the lawyers ask such questions, if you choose not to answer them, you can so indicate either verbally or with a raise of the hand, if appropriate. I must tell you that I’ve never been faced with this situation. And for the benefit of the record and some appellate
judges who may grade my papers later on, I believe that I have made a decision that should permit the lawyers to try to get answers that may be critical to their selections and also protect your rights as voting citizens. Mr. Christiansen, as counsel for the plaintiff, you may proceed with voir dire. You have two hours.”

  “Oh, one more thing. Mr. Bryant’s son, J.D. Bryant, is his legal assistant. I’ve seen several of you glancing at him. He was an All American at TCU and recently signed with the Cowboys. I want to get that out on the table. In this courtroom, he’s not an All American anything. Do you all understand and agree that you’ll now set it aside? If so, raise your hand.”

  Fifty-six prospective jurors raised their hands. “Now, Mr. Christiansen, you may begin.”

  Jack observed the jury panel’s responses to Christiansen with even more care than usual. The usual trial lawyer rules of thumb for picking jurors were tossed out the window in this case. When a number of jurors declined to discuss their party affiliation, Jack could not determine if it was because some folks thought how they voted was nobody’s business but their own or, in the Republican stronghold of Fort Worth, did some not want to admit that they voted Democrat? When the plaintiff lawyer finished, they broke for lunch. Jack and his team retired to the conference room.

  “You see that coming, Dad?” J.D. asked.

  “No, but it’s a good move on Christiansen’s part. He had a weak case against the other two defendants. Now he can focus on us and that perceived conflict of interest. We can still call some of those cops and guards, if we need to. Now, let’s look at the jury panel and evaluate them in light of Christiansen’s questions and their answers.” After studying what they had learned so far, Jack pitched his pen on the table. “This is nothing but a giant crapshoot. We might as well take the first twelve and be done with it.”

  In spite of his comments, Jack was not going to pass up the opportunity to conduct his own voir dire. He spent an hour and a half, seeking more information, with no more success than Christiansen. Still, at the end of the day Judge Jamison got her wish. They had a jury of twelve with two alternates. After the jury was excused and the courtroom was nearly deserted, Hartley approached Jack. “So, what do you think of your jury?”

  Jack blinked his eyes and thought before he spoke. “Damned if I know. Ask me again in a couple of weeks, after they have returned a verdict.”

  64

  In his opening statement the next day, Christiansen immediately seized the attention of the jury. He moved to the front of the jury box and said, “I’m going to start my watch now.”

  The composition of the jury was a reasonable cross-section of the citizens of Tarrant County. Seven Anglos, three African-Americans, Two Hispanics. Ages ranged from eighteen to seventy-three; seven male and five female. The two alternates were one white male and one Hispanic female. Their occupations ranged from mechanic to accountant to housewife to waitress.

  The jurors watched the plaintiff lawyer push a button on his Timex. All fourteen wondered what he was up to. Time seemed to move slowly. Silence filled the courtroom, broken only by the click of the seconds ticking from the clock on the wall over the door to the hall. Several jurors watched it, wondering what Christiansen was trying to prove. The lawyer clicked his Timex again and looked up at the jury, still letting the silence fill the court. Even Jack squirmed a little when he saw it had been eight seconds.

  “That was eight seconds. Long enough for Usain Bolt to run about eighty meters from a dead start. Long enough for Peyton Manning to take a snap, survey the defense, spot his open receiver and throw a touchdown pass sixty yards down the field. On the night of the Halloween attack, it was the length of time from when the assassin fired her first shot that nearly killed Governor Lardner and her second shot that did kill Edward Hale, leaving Maria here a widow, followed by a third shot that wounded Kevin O’Connell. Rather than keeping the killer down behind the bar where she had taken refuge after that first shot, the governor’s security detail abandoned their duty to the public and rushed to get the governor and his wife off the stage. If only one of them had continued cover fire in the direction of the killer, she would have been forced to remain behind the bar, giving Mr. Edward Hale and Mr. O’Connell and the others on the stage a chance to escape. The detail, and particularly its lead, Walt Frazier, were derelict in their duty to anyone other than the governor and his wife. We expect you to so find and make them and the DPS pay for the damages they caused to Mrs. Hale, the Hale children and Kevin O’Connell.”

  Three of the jurors looked at Walt who wanted to disappear if some genie could only wave a magic wand. Instead, he turned to gaze out the window. The remainder of the detail stared straight ahead, their faces looking like some of the masks that were worn at the fund raiser.

  Christiansen next backed up and described the event, its purpose and briefly touched on the various witnesses that he would call before focusing on the multi-million dollars in damages suffered by his clients. He thanked the jury for their attention and returned to his seat.

  Jack stood and walked the few steps behind J.D. and Walt. The members of the detail were seated in the chairs immediately behind them. He glanced at the benches where Colby now sat on the first row, taking notes. The plaintiffs occupied the same row but across the aisle and behind Christiansen. The remainder of the benches were now filled with reporters from local and national media. He leaned on his cane slightly as he spoke.

  “Easy for Mr. Christiansen to say, isn’t it? He wasn’t there. You’ll see what Sergeant Frazier and the other members of the detail were faced with. Understand, they didn’t choose this scenario. If it had been up to them, Governor Lardner would have appeared on closed circuit television. They were outvoted by the politicians. Instead, three of them were standing on the stage with one in the back of the room, trying to evaluate any danger that might pop up suddenly from a room teeming with two hundred and fifty people in costumes, many with weapons, either real or fake. You will see on the videos that they had already dealt with multiple balloons bursting, corks popping, blanks being fired at the ceiling.

  “Each time they had to decide if Governor Lardner and others were in danger. When the shot was fired that nearly killed the governor, they couldn’t immediately determine which of the revelers fired it. Finally, Wyatt Kamin, one of the governor’s detail who was stationed in the back of the room, spotted someone dressed as a cat burglar who had what appeared to be a real gun in her hand. He fired several shots at her in rapid succession, forcing her to duck below the bar. Knowing there were cops on the balcony, Kamin made the decision to go to the aid of the governor. The assassin took that moment to pop from behind the bar and fire two more shots, killing Edward Hale and wounding Kevin O’Connell. Once you hear the evidence and see the videos, you will agree that my clients performed up to the highest standards. But for their efforts, more people probably would have been killed.”

  Jack paused to allow what he said to sink in. “And one last thing. We know the name of the killer. The DPS tracked her to a compound in West Texas.”

  Two jurors nodded as they remembered reading about the assault on the compound.

  “She is Miriam Van Zandt. She’s still alive in Methodist Hospital. She rarely awakens but on one occasion she admitted that she was paid for what she did that night. As of now we don’t know who paid her. Maybe this trial will bring that person to the surface and we can finally have justice done.” Leaving that unanswered question floating in the air, Jack returned to his seat.

  Christiansen glanced over at Jack, wondering if Jack knew something that he didn’t.

  “Mr. Christiansen, call your first witness,” Judge Jamison said.

  Christiansen had pondered throughout the weekend about his order of proof. He finally settled on Oscar Hale as the first witness. It was his house. He was host of the party. Even though his brother had been killed, at least he did not carry the bias of a plaintiff seeking damages. And he was known to be a generous benefactor to nearl
y every civic cause and charity in Fort Worth. Even though a man of enormous wealth, he had the image in Fort Worth of a benevolent grandfather.

  “Your Honor, Plaintiffs call Oscar Hale.”

  The billionaire walked slowly to the witness stand and stood while the court reporter swore him in. Ernie brought him a cup of water. He took a sip and looked at Christiansen. “I’m ready, Cecil.”

  Christiansen took him through his early days, growing up in Fort Worth. Edward was younger than he by three years. They rarely saw their father since he spent weeks at a time, nosing around the Permian Basin and what would later become known as the Eagle Ford shale play in South Texas. When he found a working interest in a well at the right price, he would offer the land owner cash on the barrel head to buy a piece of that interest, leaving the owner as the biggest holder of the minerals, but putting cash in his hands to buy a new truck or send a kid to college. Over the years, the old man bought hundreds, maybe thousands of such interests. By the time he died, Oscar and Edward inherited mineral rights worth several hundred million dollars.

  Oscar had gone to Texas A & M. Edward opted for the Ivy League, Yale to be exact. When their father died, they made decisions together. Both bought mansions in Westover Hills, but Edward always maintained an apartment in New York. They were wealthy, but not in the billionaire class, that is, until George Mitchell, another Aggie oil man, perfected fracking and gave his technique to the world. With that the Hales moved well into the ranks of the billionaires.

  Having talked about Oscar Hale’s background, Christiansen moved into his interest in politics. “You see,” Hale said, “I’m a self-made man.” He ignored the fact that he inherited a few hundred million. “I never asked the government…he pronounced it “govment”…for a penny to develop my business…”bidness.” Don’t want anything from any government and want them just to leave me alone. Early on in my career I realized that I couldn’t ignore politics. As a young man, I voted Democrat, supported Lyndon Johnson, John Connelly, Jim Wright and others. Then a bunch of us realized that we were getting shoved aside in the Democrat party. We became Republicans. So did Texas.” He turned to look at the jury. “Hell, you folks know we haven’t had a Democrat in a statewide office in twenty years.”